


A Startling Sensation

by wildcard_47



Series: Can't Deny My Love [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: M/M, denial is a river in egypt, hurt comfort, is this a kissing fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 07:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15681255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Inspired by one ofonstraysod's Terror prompt fills. Francis visits Erebus in the middle of the night.





	A Startling Sensation

John Bridgens, damn him, did not even have the common decency to seem surprised when Captain Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier appeared in the hatch of _Erebus_ in the dead of night, flanked only by two Marines with nary so much as a sleeve of gunpowder in his coat pockets.

“Evening, sir.” Upon hearing footsteps on the stairs, Bridgens rose to greet them, and put down his book. “Thought we might be seeing you on board before long.”

Crozier just rolled his eyes. Good god.

“Find yourself a hot biscuit whilst you wait,” he told the two Marines instead. “Mr. Bridgens will fetch you once it’s time to return.”

They happily obliged, traipsing back upstairs like a herd of half-grown elephants.

“I take it,” said Bridgens once the stampede had died down, as drily as if they were two spinsters who’d just sent a pair of girls off to play in the garden during teatime, “you’ve come about the Captain.”

“Come about.” Francis yanked the damp woolen scarf off of his neck with an irritated huff. “All the hours spent complaining, and now the damn fool won’t even walk to _Terror_ when I request it of him. Has he truly been ill?”

Bridgens made a soft, possibly noncommittal noise that said this guess was not too far off the mark. “He has not been himself of late, certainly.”

“Bloody well aware of that,” Francis sighed, and pulled off his coat; Bridgens took it and hung it on the nearest nail. Opposite from where Jopson usually placed hooks and nails. Although Francis’s newfound sobriety invigorated him with a patience he previously had not known he possessed, it was still difficult to dwell on James’ recent behavior without expressing frustration. “I’ll go and speak to him, then.”

“Captain Crozier…”

There was a hesitation in Bridgens’ voice. Francis did not know what annoying question lurked beneath the steward’s careful manner, or what good-natured but ultimately cloying advice Mother Bridgens might possibly dole out, and decided to save him the trouble.

“Suppose you’re just going to tell me to be careful, hm?”

At this, Bridgens’ reserved expression melted away into something more like a smile. Perhaps it was the similarities in age, or in experience, or perhaps just the camaraderie of being the two persons closest to Fitzjames at this particular moment in time, but for a split second, Francis swore he saw a twinkle of humor in Bridgens’ spectacled gaze.

“No, sir,” the steward said quietly, and gestured toward him with a ready lantern. “Surprise him at your leisure.”

Well, whatever. Francis took the lantern the steward offered without another word. Letting himself into James’ cabin, and closing the door after him, he placed the lantern on the desk, took off his waistcoat and tossed it into the floor in an attempt to get comfortable, and then hopped up onto the side of James’s bunk without ceremony. Although his hips still ached from lying-in for so long during the horrors, the initial stiffness was fading slightly every day.

“Get up, you layabout,” he said, cheerfully as he could manage. “Know you aren’t asleep, so there’s no use pretending.”

Turned toward the wall with his legs drawn up under him, James did not move.

“Anyone in there?” Francis shoved at Fitzjames’s feet beneath the blankets; his fellow captain flinched and hissed, but did not sit up.

“Go _away_ , Francis. I can’t sleep.”

“Ah, so you’ll speak, then. Why didn’t you come to Terror for supper?”

No reply. The lantern illuminated just enough of the room for Francis to see James’s solemn face. His eyes were downcast and the set of his mouth was alarmingly solemn.

“Been busy,” Fitzjames said in a monotone.

"Bollocks," Francis countered loudly, and leaned closer. Plenty of other retorts hovered on the tip of his tongue. _Bridgens and Goodsir say you haven’t left your bunk in two days. You’ve been inconsolable since Carnivale. Why aren’t you bothering me about various ship’s inanities? Assigning duty for petty slights, or telling any of your damned stories? Or shaving each morning? Or moving from your bed, even?_ “Bollocks to that _bollocks_ excuse, you great fucking wanker. You came to Terror every night I was abed, according to Edward’s reports. And now you won’t even deign to – ”

“Francis, stop,” came the soft plea.

Stunned, Francis actually obeyed. His mouth still hung open, although no more words issued out. After the silence had hung in the air for several moments, perhaps even half a minute, he finally shut it, and cleared his throat.

Somewhere in the dark room, a small watch ticked out the time.

“James.” Quiet this time, almost plaintive. “Won’t you speak to me, brother?”

A heavy sigh. Francis wondered if perhaps a defter hand was required for these matters. Awkwardly, he swung his legs up onto the bunk, and scuttled up backwards toward the single pillow, so that he was sitting directly behind a nightshirted James, mere centimeters from his prone form. He propped himself up on the lumpy mattress with one outstretched arm.

“We can’t both be melancholy bastards, hm?” Crozier tried to gentle his usual acrid humor, this time. “And for God’s sake, don’t make me try for constant cheer. Not only would the men despise me for it, but they might actually mutiny at once.”

Fitzjames only sighed. “If they do, we’ve only ourselves to blame.”

Frowning in dismay, Francis actually reached out to touch James’s arm. His fingers stopped mere centimeters from Fitzjames’s nightshirt.

_Please tell me what’s wrong._

He had not realized he spoke the sentence aloud until Fitzjames cleared his throat, and answered the query in a low, flat rasp. Nothing like his usual confident tenor.

“I cannot go on as normal. Knowing what happened. What they face. What we ask in return.”

Hesitantly, Francis allowed himself to cup James’s elbow. “Why, by God?”

“‘S my fault.” Fitzjames’ voice wobbled, but did not hitch; Francis felt a surge of sympathy crash through the middle of his chest, like a great wave breaking on the bow of a storm-tossed ship. “And they hate me for it.”

“Come off it, James. If anyone on this vessel truly hates you after all this time, they most likely hated you before.” With a growl of irritation, Francis thought of the caulker’s mate or Manson or Aylemore or any-one of the other damned miscreants with an eye for parley. “And if you are talking about the voyage itself, then it is not your fault...”

Fitzjames did not seem to hear him; he was already muttering to himself again. “Silence is gone. Erebus is sinking...”

“And the biscuits have weevils and the tins are putrid and even the god-damned piss buckets are frozen. What in seven hells _is_ your point, James?”

No reply. Silhouetted in the dim light, he watched as Fitzjames turned away from the wall, nearly displacing Francis from the narrow bunk as he shifted more fully onto his back. Watching the slow flicker of the lantern illuminate the reddish scruff that thickened James’s jaw, softly highlighting the small flecks of grey at the top of his mouth and the sides of his square chin and around where his deep dimples ought to be, Francis suddenly heard the old steward’s words in the back of his head again. _Surprise him._

“Going to scratch at me all night, then, Francis?”

“I’ll not do that,” said Francis, who in truth still had not decided precisely what he _would_ do. “Only till you sit up and promise to meet me in the morning.”

“Augh. No.”

James went to roll back over; immediately, Francis stopped him with a hand on his right shoulder. He thought back to a night long ago when their roles were reversed, of James grabbing him by the collar and pulling him upright, demanding to be understood, unwilling to be moved. Even stone drunk and half awake, such an impetuous and foolhardy gesture had made quite the impression. Francis had never forgot it.

Without another word, he reached out and pulled James up into a sitting position; given the way they were arranged along the narrow bunk, it quickly became more awkward than Francis had anticipated. James’s neck and head rested along his left palm and forearm, shoulders tensed and back arched like a half-wheel, while Francis loomed awkwardly over him, his right arm cradling James around the ribs. Their bodies were pressed together from chest to waist. His face was mere millimeters from Fitzjames’s. Strangest of all, he could feel James’ breath, soft yet shallow, stirring the hair on his neck.

“Only till you give me a goodnight kiss, then.”

In the lamplight, James’s hands were taut shadows gripping Francis’s shoulders. His dark eyes were unreadable. “Francis.”

Francis knew not why he dared push farther, why he could not stop himself from keeping to his word; all he could think in the moment was that perhaps if he did kiss James, in utmost seriousness this time, then James would sit up, push him off, and demand to know just what the bloody hell he was thinking. Perhaps he’d stop brooding, start shaving, and end up lecturing everyone about the dangers of prolonged melancholia. Or at least begin helping with the preparations for –

Clearly pulling Francis from his own spiral of thoughts, James reached between them, one hand visibly trembling as it charted a slow path up toward Francis’s face. Without speaking, he gently tucked a lock of Francis’s hair behind one ear.

Fucking hell.

Bending down, Francis Crozier proceeded to kiss Fitzjames as soundly as he had ever done any woman of his acquaintance, pulling his fellow captain up into a sudden, strangely ardent embrace. The sensation of a man’s dry, warm lips opening invitingly under his, and a stubbly beard scraping his own rough-shaven face, paired with the soft touch of gentle fingers combing through the hair behind his right ear as well as tracing idly around his middle back, were so bewildering a combination that they sent a shiver into Francis’s limbs.

When James groaned, low in his throat, Francis pulled back with a small, sharp gasp.

_God-damn it all to hell. What have we done?_

Now, both men sat upright in the half-darkness of James’s bunk, breathing a little heavy, blinking wordlessly at each other like a pair of idiot ship’s boys.

Flushing hot with embarrassment, Francis glanced away, truly feverish for the first time since he’d left his sickbed a fortnight ago. Perhaps he had pushed Fitzjames too far past the limits of decency, this time. Now James was going to be furious with him, or – or refuse to leave his bunk, or – worse –

“James, I’ll not bother you again.” He scrambled backwards, so quickly that he nearly fell into the floor and under the desk. It was a near thing; he caught himself on the carved railing with one hand seconds before the drop. “Fucking hell! Just – don’t stay away.” Quickly moving down the ladder, and attempting to pick up the lantern from the nearby desk, he stumbled on his own discarded waistcoat before he could reach one whit, and slammed his right knee into the lip of the desk, hissing in frustration after it happened. “God-damned demon bunk!”

“Oh, Francis.”

It was a rueful, almost knowing, exhalation; and now James sounded much more like his usual self as he sat up. Although the bloom of shock had not fully left his face, one corner of his mouth had turned upright in a clear, if very small, smile.

“Ah ha. So you _can_ smile at me when you wish.”

Francis meant to follow this half-witted jest with a more cutting remark such as _well, what kept you?_ or _we’ll have Goodsir jot this down in the morning_ , but he could not yet force any of these bon mots to leave his mouth. Frankly, he was struck quite mute all of the sudden, staring at James’s dark, disheveled curls as they tumbled around his shoulders, and the strangely soft way his nightshirt pooled around his reduced frame, tangling in his lap along with the blankets. Was the man equally slight, beneath all those flimsy layers? In Francis’s embrace, he had felt stronger and more wiry than anyone might have imagined. Not that Francis had imagined it. And now James was sitting up and acting as if the past few days had been nothing but a bad dream. And Francis, who had perhaps taken full leave of his senses by this point, had been bloody stupid enough to comment on it aloud.

And so, being a Captain of the bravest and most resilient Irish temperament, Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier turned and fled the room without another word.

Outside, old Bridgens was still reading by the light of a tallow candle; when Francis closed James’s door, still flummoxed past the point of speech, the steward barely glanced up before placing his book to one side.

“Will you be requiring anything else, sir?”

“What? I – erm – no.”

The door he had just closed opened just a crack, and suddenly a very lightweight object hit him in the back of the leg. Jesus fucking Christ. It was his own waistcoat.

“Oh, _now_ you get up, you great sodding git,” Francis growled, temporarily forgetting where he was, and with whom, as he shrugged back into the waistcoat and buttoned it in haste. “I’ll expect you on deck in the morning, Captain.”

Fitzjames made a noise of affirmation. The door pulled closed.

Bridgens appeared quite calm in the face of such absurdity. For a moment, Francis was almost glad the old steward was here, instead of Jopson or Hoar. Bridgens might be a sodomite, but he was a consummate professional above all, and would not fall prey to mistaken impressions or begin scurrilous rumours.

“Well, I am glad you were able to talk sense into him, sir,” said Bridgens, as he helped Francis back into his scarf and coat. “Rare gift, these days.”

Francis sighed in relief. Yes. That was truly what had happened, and why his own nerves were so altered. Although the method had been unorthodox, he had shocked James out of further melancholy, at least temporarily, and now they were both alert, at the ready, and fully aware as to what should be done over the next few weeks. Preparing for the long walk.

That was perhaps why his hands shook now. Why his heart still raced.

“Go and fetch the Marines, Bridgens. We’ll walk back directly.”

By the time he returned to Terror, got out of his slops, and returned to bed, even Jopson could not help noticing that something was amiss.

“Sir, you’re far too warm.” Jopson pressed a palm to his forehead, and then to one cheek. “Is it the fever again? Shall I fetch the drops?”

“No,” said Francis, waving the poor boy off as he pulled the blankets over one hip. Surely such heightened color was from the wind and ice, and nothing more. “No, lad, relax. It’s only the cold.”

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I love pining Francis so much, I can't even tell you. He is so confused and precious, and of course he CANNOT stop thinking about those damn goodnight kisses. (In case you couldn't tell, this is inspired by Chapter 3 of _Hold Fast_.)
> 
> Plus, you know Bridgens started telling this story to Peglar ASAP the next time they were alone. That man loves a good love story.


End file.
